


when all is lost, i won't think of you

by rocketfallen



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, holy shit this is six years old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 01:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3671751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketfallen/pseuds/rocketfallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Church doesn't exactly have anywhere to go, so that's not the problem. It's just that Wash doesn't fucking <i>let him leave</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when all is lost, i won't think of you

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written [here](http://ill-katana.livejournal.com/6400.html) in 2009, reposted here for archiving because I have no idea how LJ isn't already falling apart at the seams.
> 
> Uh Church has a body, because I say so. Post-Reconstruction and completely deviating from canon from there. Title/lyrics are taken from _Failing is Not Just For Failures_ by Listener.

 

  


_when all is lost i won't think of you_

_there's nothing in this world that ghost can do_

_no matter what's ahead i'll push on through_

_for your life or through your death, i'll keep on_

  
  


It's been about two days.

Church hasn't really been keeping count, because who the hell _gives a shit_ , but it's the second time he's seen the sunset since the Emp (or the EMP or _whatever_ , since the fucking electric explosion thing), so that's probably about right.

Wash is always going into the base, wandering around, looking for something, looking for anything. But radio contact's been dead since two days ago, what with the _destroying all electronic equipment_ thing, so he has no idea what the fuck the crazy bitch could be looking for- and honestly, doesn't want to know.

There's a reason he flat-out insisted on staying outside the base, the night before, no matter how fucking cold it was. A reason Wash managed to _eventually_ sort of convince Church to move into the main hall of the place but no fucking further, a reason why Wash just sort of watched him shiver in the night and then wandered off, a reason why Wash returned an hour or so later with a pile of scrap metal ( some of which looked like kind of important machinery things, but hey who's judging ) that they used to start a fire. A reason why he's just sort of sitting here just staring at it, watching the shadows play across the floor as the sun fades away.

It's because the Freelancer base was creepy as _shit._

Something about it felt wrong, something about it felt terrible, something about it just made his blood ran cold when he ran his eyes over the countless rows of AI storage shelves and yeah, fuck it, he's staying out here.

But they haven't _gone_ anywhere either, and that's the problem-- Wash keeps talking about how they have to go after Caboose, go after Epsilon, and just what the _hell_ , man? First you tell me my whole life's been a lie, expect me to believe your stupid fucking AI shit (how long did it take up for you to make up _that_ story, you weird little psycho), then you want me to go with you on some kind of wild goose chase to _find Caboose_? No way, absolutely no fucking way, but Church doesn't have anywhere else to go, either. But Wash wouldn't _let him leave_ , the jackass, so here they fucking were for about two days, just around--

“Forty-six hours, Church.”

His head snaps up from staring down at the fire, and Wash is walking in with more piles of random shit in his arms, and Church doesn't doubt what he's saying because Wash would be crazy enough, wouldn't he, to actually _keep track_ of how much time's gone by without a watch or a timer or anything like that.

“Yeah, alright, thanks for that valuable information.”

Wash doesn't answer ( of course ), and Church isn't _looking_ at him but he can feel the older man's eyes boring into his skull. He can feel it, too, when Wash is _trying_ not to stare, or at least trying to kinda-sorta pretend he isn't when he really _is_ , anyway, and it makes him a little uncomfortable, sometimes. He's told the bastard to cut it out, once, twice, probably more than that, but Wash's basically just lied to his face about it ( no idea what you're talking about, Church, but alright? )- so he's given up, just mutters a distracted string of curses, rubbing at the inside of his wrist.

The other man puts the pile of scrap down, nudges one into the fire. He takes off his helmet with a distracted sort of a sigh, pressing the tips of his fingers against his forehead, massaging lightly at his temple, and Church always can't help but notice how fucking _weird_ it is to see a guy like Wash without his armor.

He's pretty much still the same know-it-all-secret-agent-jackass without it, of course, but he's one of those know-it-all-secret-agent-jackasses that's just virtually synonymous with his job and his rank and the army and it's pretty trippy to realize, just for brief seconds at a time, that Wash-- as _fucked up_ as he was now-- was something other than that. He always looked so damn tired, like he's always thinking about something or the other, like he's so damn annoyed at having to deal with all that shit that tends to crop up in life. And there's that thing, that thing about being not-so-slowly but steadily, steadily spiraling down down down and being fucking driven _insane_ and Church wouldn't give a shit, really, wouldn't even begin to care, but he's been in the guy's head once ( he's a _ghost_ , you know ), just for a few minutes, but that'd been quite a bit enough for him to feel maybe just a little bad. Not that it was his fault, in any way.

Wash is unlatching his armor, laying it aside next to the pile of Church's own, and Church can feel him _watching._

“The hell are you trying to do anyway, Wash?” he says, though he doesn't really know why he said it, doesn't really know why he says most things, probably because the silence is kind of heavy and thick and the place was fucking creepy enough _already._ “Keep detailed minute-to-minute logs of our fucking secret friendship club meetings?”

Wash doesn't answer, and Church just rolls his eyes.

* * *

“Forty-nine hours.”

“Great. Just _great_ , Wash, I'm planning a party, when we get to fifty. Infact, let me go call and order some pizza right-- oh, wait, all our fucking radios are dead! There's still hope, let me just run down and get some-- oh, right, you _won't fucking let me leave_ because you want to try and make me go on your goddamn AI hunt, you crazy son of a _bitch!”_

Wash doesn't even bat an eyelid at that. He's leaning against a wall on the other side of the wide open hallway, slowly cleaning out the pieces of his disassembled pistol laid out across a table, not even looking up ( but still looking at him, somehow, Church can tell he can _feel_ it, somewhere out of the corner of the creepy fucker's eyes ).

“I'm not crazy,” he says, quite simply, and Church just scoffs.

“Yeah, whatever man.”

Silence, just more silence, and it stretches on- there's a dull ache in Church's skull from the lack of sleep, because he'd barely gotten any the night before, and who can blame him, right. He notices, more and more as the hours ( all fucking forty-eight of them ) trickle by, how goddamn eerie this place is under the firelight. Bases were always full of a million lights, everything that looked vaguely luminescent probably was, light on light on light as it reflects on the cold metal coating every single fucking surface until the whole place was _glowing._ But without power, without electricity, everything was just sort of-- dead, and shadows played against the metallic walls, against the large and formidable mechanisms that he really, really kind of didn't want to guess the purpose of.

Being in here put him on edge, and he'd already tried once to just get up and leave.  But while Wash seems pretty adamant on convincing him to go on that gay mission of his rather than forcing him along by gunpoint, he's much, much more lax about what he does to make sure Church doesn't fucking backtrack. He _knows_ Wash can't kill him ( he's already dead anyway ), he knows Wash _needs_ him for whatever it is he has in mind, but have you ever had a criminally insane man grab you by the collar of your shirt and tell you, in the calmest voice in the world, that you should _really_ reconsider leaving?

Yeah, didn't fucking think so. It's convincing.

A crackle of fire. And metal on metal, sharp and sliding, a few soft clicks as Wash slowly slides all the parts of the gun back into place, and this time it's Wash who breaks the quiet.

“Forty-nine hours.”

“You said that already.” The guy had it coming to him.

“We've wasted _forty-nine hours_ , and so they're two whole days ahead,” he says, and Church can hear it in his voice, that almost grinding sort of a sound that sounded just like something perched _right on the fucking edge._ “If we'd have just left when the Meta disappeared, we would've caught up to them by now.”

“ _You_ would've caught up with them by now. I, on the other hand, wouldn't have given a shit- kind of like how I still fucking _don't.”_

“What, you'd rather us just sit here and _rot?_ ” And it's not the first time he's brought it up, he's done it maybe three, four times since he first suggested they go after Epsilon and Church told him to go fuck himself- it's pretty damn clear how annoyed he's getting, and Church realizes it's never a good idea to taunt the crazy person, but what the hell, man.

“No, I'd actually rather you fuck off- _and,_ ” he says, before Wash has the time to argue, “ _And,_ you fucking _psycho,_ I know _you_ aren't going to leave, so why don't you let _me_ \--?”

“No.”

“ _Yeah._ Yeah, I fucking figured, jackass.”  Church turns around to glare at Wash, who's since turned around to face him from the table, too, and maybe that look in the other's eyes should've given him a clue but that's never stopped him before, hasn't it. “Jesus fucking _Christ_ , I liked it better when you guys just tried to trade us favors.”

Wash's fingers tighten against the edge of the table, just slightly, but Church can see his knuckles whiten, can see the flash of something in his eyes-- it reminds him of those few fleeting moments he actually spent _in_ the guy's head, and well. He knows, could even understand if he wanted to, just why Wash was being such an unreasonable fuck ( but he doesn't want to, and that's what it usually came down to, in the end ), why the guy was as crazy as he was, but he doesn't think about it all that much-- makes it easier, makes everything easier.

Wash looks like he's about to say something, for a moment looks like he might just walk over and beat the shit out of him ( it wouldn't have been the first time and Church still can't really tell, the crazies were unpredictable little bastards )--  but then it's gone, in an exhale of breath, and Wash pushes himself away from the table to stand a few feet in front of him.

“Okay,” Wash says. “Let's bargain.”

A beat.

Two.

And Church just looks at him. “What, are you fucking retarded? I'm not bargaining with _you._ ”

Wash actually looks a little taken aback. “You just said--”

“I just said I'm _not bargaining with you!_ ”

“That's how these things work, alright? You do me a favor, I'll do you a favor--”

“-- How about you _fuck off,_ Wash, that's doing me a favor, I'll take that deal any day--”

“Not an option.”

“What kind of retarded bargaining is this, then, that _has_ to be a goddamn option!”

“It's not an option because I'm trying to bargain for you to come along with me in the first place!”

“Well, that's a fucking shitty deal and I'm refusing your terms, jackass.”

“I didn't even _give_ you any terms!”

“They involve me going along with you on your crazy-ass AI hunt thing, I'm refusing them in advance.”

“Just--” And right here Wash gets that look on his face that Church knows so well, because it's the exact same expression that Church has on his own face whenever Caboose pisses him off one too many times, whenever Tucker pushes it just a little too far. Instinctively Church falls back a step-- not that he's _scared_ , or anything, he's just not _stupid_ \-- but somehow Wash holds himself back again. Which, really, now that he's seen what the fuck goes on in there, is a few hundred times more impressive than it ever was.

“-- Stop. Just stop, shut the fuck up for a moment,” Wash is looking away and rubbing at his forehead again, in that way that usually meant he was having some kind of I'm-surrounded-by- _incompetence_ headache. Now normally, Church could relate to that pretty well, but _hah_ , bitch. Served him right.

“What,” he says, quirking an eyebrow as he folds his arms around his chest.

“You don't get it, do you?” Wash sighs, “You don't believe me despite all the _ridiculous amounts of evidence_ piling in your face--”

“I told you, I'm a motherfucking _ghost_!”

“-- fine, whatever. You don't have to believe me. You don't have to accept it, you can go on pretending as much as you like. I still can't do this without you.”

“Well sucks to be you, asshole.”

“Do you fucking _get it,_ Church _?_ I _can't_ do it alone!” Wash's stepping forward, grabbing him by the shoulders, shaking him. An alarm goes off right in Church's head for a split second but it doesn't feel like the guy's going to _do_ anything (as much as he could tell anyway), just frustrated, exasperated, almost in a way- desperate. “For fucks' sake, I'm giving you free license to get me to do whatever the hell you _want_ , and no matter what the shit it is I'd probably just do it anyway because I fucking _need_ you. It's there, it's the perfect opportunity for whatever, the perfect bargain, the kind of thing most people would take advantage of!”

“Yeah, well, why don't you just fucking suck my dick, alright?”

Wash just stares at him, and Church can see the frustration building in his eyes, feel it in the way his fingers were digging just a little more into his shoulders. There's something in his voice, something in the way his muscles are tensing up, that tells Church that it'd probably be a good time to start backing away from the crazy guy.

“You. All of you,” Wash mutters, “Have got to be the most fucking juvenile soldiers I have ever seen.”

“I knew that already.” Church can feel the other's grip tighten against his shoulders in a way that was really starting to actually hurt, and he's had enough of this bullshit arguing, anyway. “So listen, if you're done with your little rant there--”

He takes a step back, shoves Wash's arm out of the way and slips back towards the fire- or he tries, anyway, because Wash just grabs him by the wrist as he pulls away. Church raises an eyebrow, opens his mouth to speak, but Wash cuts him off.

“Fine.”

Pause.

“What?”

And the next very next second he's being grabbed by the shoulders, backed up against the table, and Church doesn't even have the time to say anything.

Wash was a pretty damn slippery fucker, you know, when he wanted to be- Church didn't even see it coming, or maybe he did and just didn't get out of the way fast enough, goddamn Freelancers. He tries to shove him away, manages to get out a single word ( _what_ \-- ) but then there's a shock of pain straight from his spine- it just took Wash one shove to push him down, his legs dangling just off the edge of the table. He _hates_ that, hates that he doesn't even fucking stand a chance against him- the pistol that was on the table moments before clatters down to the floor, skids slightly across the metal towards one of the table legs.

The guy's usually so fucking anal about his guns and this is retarded, so fucking crazy and Church is about to say something when he looks back up from the floor he's staring _right up at Wash._

So close just plain fucking _uncomfortably_ close and Wash is straddling him, almost, and there's that damn look in his eyes and it's scary, scary in a weird way, intense and fixated and so focused so fucking focused right down at him and his own eyes. It makes him stall, for a second, makes his mouth run dry, but then he's yelling, “What the _fuck_ , Wash, what the shitting hell?”

He tries to shove him off and only just then realizes that Wash has got his wrists pinned down pretty damn tightly- he struggles, tries to move, but Wash is so much stronger than him the crazy son of a bitch and he's just _there_ , just staring, just fucking _watching_ him struggle.

“Get the fuck off me, you crazy shit, let go, what the hell are you even trying to _do?_ ”

Wash doesn't even blink. “Sucking your dick.”

And really Church could've just fucking burst out laughing or something right there and then except Wash was there just _staring_ at him and his wrists were starting to hurt and there was a faint sort of ache still echoing around his spine and what the hell, man. The laugh's there, though, just sort of dies in his throat along the way to his mouth and it sounds kind of strangled, almost forced.  “You've got to be fucking kidding me.”

It's when Wash doesn't respond, doesn't even budge, that Church knows there's something really, really wrong. Then he starts talking-- rambling, almost, just to fill the silence, still trying to move his arms. “You fucking asshole, Wash, did you actually take that seriously? Get the hell off me, alright, you goddamn gay-ass _psycho_ , I'm not fucking going anywhere with you and you can stop this bullshit right about--”

“Shut up.”

“-- No, fuck you, Wash! I'm not shutting up, because you just fucking _attacked me_ out of _nowhere_ and it's not like it's the first time, you crazy bitch, and I didn't even _do_ anything, it's just you and your batshit AI story and I can't believe you actually thought I was _serious--_ ”

“I didn't.”

“-- Then for fucks' sakes, get the hell _off_ me, you crazy, unstable, completely motherfucking _insane_ son of a--”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He was going to keep talking, anyway, it wouldn't have been the first time he's ignored Wash entirely, but then he's _kissing_ him. Sort of, anyway, because it was so fucking rough and harsh and way-too-aggressive it's more like Wash is trying to bite him and devour him whole right fucking there. He struggles for all it's worth but he can't even fucking move his arms and anything else he can do Wash just sort of ignores as though absolutely nothing happened, and he's trying to focus on something else on anything but then Wash _bites_ _down_ on his lower lip and he can taste blood, taste blood and feel the other man's tongue running against his own teeth, can _taste_ it.

Wash tastes- bitter. Bitter and harsh, tastes like gunmetal and burnt cigarettes, like warm-copper- _blood_ that Church knew was coming from his own lip. And he realizes there's something brushing against his neck, under his chin, Wash's calloused hand wandering up to his hair and twisting, tugging, tilting his head _back_ and all the while kissing him harder. The second thing he realizes is that, well, that means his hand is _free_ , and he tries to prop himself up by the elbow but it isn't really working, grabs Wash by the shoulder and tries to push him off.

The guy just grabs his hand again, though, and it's so fucking stupid, so fucking _retarded_ how Wash always had the upper hand, how he's always so calm- but not quite _always_ in control because he can feel it in the way the other's nails are fucking _digging_ into his wrists, the way his lungs are aching a little because he hasn't had the chance to breathe, the way Wash is just fucking his mouth with his tongue, but then it stops. It stops and Church can _breathe,_ can move his hands, can feel Wash's weight shifting off the table, so that must be over with, right? It hurts a little when he moves his hands to push to push himself off the table- it's just as he's sitting on the edge, just as he opens his eyes ( only he doesn't remember closing them ), just when he opens his mouth to start with a “Jesus fucking _Christ,_ Wash--”

And he realizes just what he's looking at. It's Wash, still there, not _on_ him anymore, not above him, not pushing him down but kneeling. On the floor, fucking on his _knees_ between his legs and Church sputters a little on his words because it looks ridiculous, retarded, more than a little insane ( but, also,  kind of in a strangefuckingway that he reallyreally _really_ didn't want to think about too much-- )

“-- What the hell. Just what the shitting hell, you goddamn _asshole_ , I'm just going to go and--”

But then Wash grabs him by the collar of his shirt and jerks him downwards, until his hands scrabble a little on the edge of the table to keep himself from falling over, until he's staring Wash right in the face ( he still looks so fucking _calm_ , but that's only on the surface- he's pissed off and tired and a million other things that bore right into the back of his skull through his eyes and so much control, so fucking calm ).

“Don't move,” Wash hisses, through his teeth, and it's those kind of things that let Church know that Wash's just far over the edge now, too fucking gone, that so-strong-so-fragile self-control that Wash holds so close to heart just isn't there right now.

“Fuck you, alright,” he snaps back, trying to straighten himself back up, moving to push himself off the table. “Fuck you, and fuck this shit, I'm--”

Click, click.

“I said don't fucking _move,_ Church.”

The pistol that fell to the floor earlier was in Wash's hand, and Church notices very very clearly, pressed right up against the side of his head. A sharp intake of breath and he's not moving, not moving at all, staring straight at Wash who's staring back except the way he stares is _different_ , somehow, makes him want to keep looking and look away all at the same time.

“You're goddamn insane.”

“No,” Wash says quietly, softly, muttering it just loud enough for him to hear, pulling him just a little closer. “But I'm something close.”

Church doesn't respond, and Wash just looks at him for awhile, like he always does- lets go of his shirt and the first instinct Church has is to lean back and away but then the cool metal of the gun's pressing pointedly against his head, digging into his skin.

He fucking _knows_ that Wash won't pull the trigger, that Wash _can't_ pull the trigger, but he stops moving anyway. He wants to say something, keep talking about how Wash was just the most horrible stupid fuck for taking him seriously but Church knows he didn't, knows it wasn't anything about what he said to begin with, wants to pull back and grab the pistol and just shove it down Wash's throat but he can't, he doesn't, just stays still. Wash's hand slides around, behind Church's head, pressing against the gun against the back of his neck, keeps him leaning down and looking straight at Wash, and then they're kissing again.

Metal, fire, gunsmoke, traces of blood from the cut in his lip from moments before, and his mind barely has enough time to register all that before Wash is working off his pants, the barrel of the gun digging even harder into the skin of his neck, and long, calloused fingers wrap around his cock and squeeze.

He hates the way he can't control himself, hates the way he shudders in an entirely too-obvious way and bucks forward just a little, hates the way he _knows_ that Wash saw it all, didn't miss a single thing, probably caught a few more. He hates it when Wash starts jerking him off, hard and rough but _slow_ , sofuckingslow but just enough for his shoulders to tremble, for his fingers to tighten along the edge of the table. Wash is still kissing him, hard, fast, downright _vicious_ and it's ( not entirely _unpleasant_ , just ) wild and harsh, more than a little bit completely motherfucking batshit _insane_ , something about it makes him want to just--

But he can't, he doesn't, doesn't fucking _want to_ because this was so retarded so stupid so dumb so fucking wrongwrong _wrong_ but nothing's really been right, nothing's ever really been _right_ , has it. Wash's hand is still working him over, so goddamn slow but he's kissing him hard enough to bruise and why the fuck won't he go _faster?_ He doesn't need that, though, doesn't need it not now not yet he can still hold on until Wash presses a thumb against the head of his cock, flicking his fingers over it before continuing to work up and down.

Church hisses, and it's only just then when he realizes that Wash isn't kissing him anymore, that he lost his balance a little the last time he rocked his hips forward and his hand's on Wash's shoulder, trying to steady himself, that his eyes were closed again. He tries to move his hand away, back to the table but it's hard to focus hard to concentrate and Wash is leaning forward, biting down on the base of his neck like the sick lunatic that he was, hard enough to break the skin.

“Fuck, did you just--” Gasp. Breathe. _Breathe._ “-- Did you just _bite_ me? You just _bit_ me, you fucking--”

“You talk way too much, did you know that?” Wash murmurs against his neck, shifting slightly to sink his teeth down into Church's ear, instead.

And Church was just about to respond when Wash's hand starts moving faster, harder, still not fucking _enough_ but oh god oh god and he just starts swearing and cursing and he's not even holding onto the table anymore, he realizes, his hands just scrabbling around the Wash's back and shoulders and the back of the other's neck. It pisses him off just how slow this was how it was _almost_ almost just fucking there but not enough and oh god, who would've thought that Wash was such a fucking _tease_ , who would've thought that Wash would be jacking him off, who would've thought that he'd actually be pretty fucking _good_ at it?

The gun's not there anymore, he realizes, and Wash's hand was just pressing against the back of his neck, dragging down to his sides, under his shirt, up against his chest, grabbing fistfuls of the fabric and pulling him down down _down_  and fuck it feels good, it feels so damn _good._

He isn't even sure what he's saying anymore but he can hear it, distantly, inbetween his gasps and groans and the rustling off their clothes and Wash's steady, calm breath against his ear, faster harder stop fucking wasting _time_ you fucking deranged _cunt_. But Wash doesn't even seem to hear it, doesn't respond at all, just keeps going and it drives Church motherfucking ( haha ) _insane,_ every time Wash's rough, calloused fingers curl just a little more around him, every time Wash flicks his wrist.

He doesn't really notice when Wash pulls away a little, doesn't notice when Wash shoves him back just a little until he was sitting properly against the table's edge again rather than just leaning on the older man, doesn't notice anything except how close how slow how goddamn _close_ until Wash's mouth closes around the head of his cock.

And if he's already lost control before Church isn't sure what happened here, because Wash's just kneeling there fucking _sucking_ on his cock, one hand bracing himself against the table, the other still gripping at his shirt and dragging him down, and maybe he should've punched him or something or kicked him away but all he does his moan and buck his hips into Wash's mouth, rake his hands through the other's hair, and he hears someone saying _just hurry the fuck up, Wash_ and it sounds desperate and pathetic and was that really, really _him?_

It was.

It was, and Church just completely loses himself in the feeling and the high and the waves of pleasure rocketing up and down his spine and he'd be fucking the shit out of Wash's mouth if it wasn't for the other's hand now pressing down against his thigh, keeping him there, and Wash keeps sucking and rocking his head back and forth and what the hell, Wash's done this before, hasn't he, because goddamn he was pretty fucking _good._ Like such a fucking little whore that Church could've laughed, could've just made fun of the guy to all hell but Wash takes his cock all the way in and oh my fucking _god_.

He wants to go faster.  He needs to go faster, needs to take control but he can't, he goddamn _can't_ because Wash is still stronger still calmer still so much in control even now, even right fucking now when he's kneeling between his legs and how fucking dumb was that? So dumb so stupid so good so good so _good_ and Wash moves a little faster, takes his cock in further and deeper and then all the way back out. They're kissing again except this time Church is kissing back, hard and deep and almost as good as he's getting but he's never that strong, never in control, Wash's hand back over his cock pulling and pumping and stroking harder, faster, so closeso _close_ \--

Wash pulls back from the kiss again, goes back to sucking on him and he isn't even sure what's happening, everything's a blur, just the feeling shooting through all his nerves and tightening his fingers and curling his toes from the pleasure and he can still hear himself talking except he doesn't make any sense, just ragged breathing and groaning and _fuck fuck fuck oh my god oh my fucking god wash fucking son of a bitch you goddamn psycho jackass--_

He rocks his hips forward and comes _hard_ , shuddering and twisting his fingers into the back of Wash's shirt and into his hair.

Pause.

Breathe.

_Breathe._

His shoulders sag and his eyes flicker open, his vision bleary from having shut them so tightly, and he leans back into the table, trying to focus trying to breathe because fucking god that had felt so good so damn good but that's slowly melting away, the pleasure the desperation and the _need_ , giving way to something much, much more familiar.

And fucking hell, _was_ he pissed off.

But when his vision slips back into focus Wash is pushing himself upright, spitting and wiping off his lips with the back of his hand, and in that exact moment Church realizes he can still taste a little bit of blood. He's just so angry, so fucking angry he could just get up and punch Wash across the face but he knows it won't work, knows it'd just end up being turned against him somehow but maybe just this once he doesn't fucking _care_ , and all he does in the end is pull his pants back up, glaring at Wash as the older man stares quietly at his own hands, rubbing at some spot on his wrist. So calm, so controlled, how the fuck does he stay so _calm?_

Wash looks at him. Raises an eyebrow.

Church realizes he probably looks like a pretty pathetic, angry mess, but that was all fucking _Wash's_ fault.

“You alright?”

“You fucking piece of _shit,_ Wash,” he snaps back.

Wash just looks at him for a moment and it stretches on for a pretty damn long time, looking at him and looking back at looking at each other, just openly staring and who knows what the shit was going on inside the lunatic's head, Church certainly didn't want to know.

It's Wash, this time, who turns away without a word, vanishing down the hallway into the maze of rooms beyond, and Church could've sworn that just for the slightest half-a-moment that Wash was in the smallest most subtle just-maybe- _maybe_ way-- _smiling._ Smirking, more of, just in the most hardly-noticeable twist to his lips.

The son of a _bitch._

* * *

“I'm guessing you haven't changed your mind.”

“You _think?_ ”

Wash wandered back into the hallway a long while after ( but not long enough ), and Church has no idea where the fuck he went or how long he's been gone but he doesn't really care. All he's done is sit down near the fire, shove some more scrap into it ( they'd been running out- Wash brought more, guess the asshole's good for _something_ ), try to close his eyes and get some sleep except as tired as he was, as much as he felt fatigue pulling on all of his muscles, he just couldn't fucking fall asleep.

Which is okay, except Wash was back, and now he had to be awake and crap with that crazy bitch around.

Or maybe it was better that he was awake. Wash might've groped him in his sleep, or something.

Wash just looks at him, for a moment, kicks something into the fire and settles down against a wall on the other side of the hall. He looks tired, always looks tired, thoughtful and somber and almost _grim_ , pressing the tips of his fingers against the ridge of his eyebrow, and Church _knew_ then he must've been imagining it earlier because it was pretty damn weird to think of Wash smiling or anything like that.

Silence, and the time slips by. Church's hands are balled into fists at his sides, his nails cutting uncomfortably deep into his palms, and he just focuses on the shapes that the flame makes against the cold, still air inside of the base, the way the light reflects slightly against the steel.

“Now what?”

Church's head snaps up, and he glares at Wash, across the fire- who's not even looking at him. Of course. “What?”

“What the hell do you want me to do now?”

A pause, and Wash's actually looking at him right now- it's not easy to tell, though, because the guy doesn't even turn his head, just ever so slightly tilts his chin, looking at him without actually really _looking_ but Church can feel it, Church can tell. The pause stretches, one of those silences that just seems endless and lasting, and then Church says, “I don't fucking know."

He looks away and Wash is still staring but he doesn't fucking _care_ , and the not-really-conversation slips back into the silence- and Wash breaks it, not ten minutes after.

“Fifty-three hours.”

Church just glares at the fire, and doesn't say a word.  
  
---  
  
 


End file.
